


Comfort

by rizcriz



Series: tumblr is dying time to get compiling [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, they have no idea what they're doing but it's okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 07:05:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16949286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizcriz/pseuds/rizcriz
Summary: Margo and Eliot realize what Quentin means to them.





	Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! i'm compiling all my fic, and moving my drabbles and everything to ao3.

“You need to tell me what the problem is,” Eliot murmurs, running a hand through Quentins hair.

They’re sitting on Quentins bed, Quentin curled up in Eliots lap, head on Eliots thigh while he shakes. He hasn’t spoken in hours.

“Q,” Eliot says, leaning down, ignoring the way his spine practically screams at the angle, “I don’t know how to do the comforting thing. I can’t say what you need to hear, because I don’t know what you need. Tell me what you need. Please.”

Quentin shakes his head, pulling his knees up tighter against himself.

Somebody knocks on the door and Eliot looks up just as Margo enters, closing the door behind her quietly. She looks down at Quentin, then up at Eliot. “No change?” She asks, soft, as she makes her way across the room and climbs on the bed to sit on the other side of them, so Quentin is between her and Eliot.

“He won’t talk, or move,” Eliot mutters, taking his hand through Quentins hair again. “I don’t know what to do. This isn’t my skill set. If he wanted to get drunk or high, this would be a piece of cake.”

Margo nods, reaching down and rubbing Quentins shoulder. “I don’t think he needs us to talk, El,” she whispers, looking down at him, “I don’t think anything we say will make it better.”

“Then what the fuck are we supposed to do?”

He’s desperate. He’s never seen Quentin like this, and a small part of him knows there’s nothing they can do because this is all part of Q’s depression and sometimes he just needs to let it all swallow him whole, but it’s hard watching him like this. It’s hard knowing he’s in there, but unreachable.

“Just sit. Wait it out?”

Her free hand comes and rests on his in Quentins hair.

They both look down at him, identical looks of concern on their faces as Quentin trembles on the bed.

“How do people do this, Bambi?” Eliot asks after a few long moments.

She looks up, furrowing her brow. “Do what?”

“Care.” He looks up at her, his vision going blurry as his sinus’ sting. “It’s so fucking counterintuitive.”

She smirks softly, “hell if I know,” she murmurs, looking down at Quentin again, twirling some of his hair between her fingers. “They just do. And now,” she shrugs, “I guess we do too.”

“He’s one of us.”

She nods. “He is.” She leans down, “You hear that? You’re one of us, Q. We’re never gonna let you go, now.” Quentin doesn’t respond, but one of his hands reaches out and grabs hers, squeezing tight.


End file.
